As long as I can remember, I’ve been involved with raising children. Literally since I was a child myself. I became comfortable with being around babies and kids, and I realized how easy it was for me to take care of them and make them happy.

My own father was not a bad person, but he was a bad father. I knew, even without any outside experience, that a father and son could (and should) have a better relationship. A mutual relationship. Not just an intimidating or impatient authority figure looking down at you.

But I think there is a single, defining moment in my life that mare me consciously decide that I wanted children of my own. When I was about 16, while looking after a group of children at a church while the parents were attending a sermon, a toddler girl got in a scuffle with another toddler and started crying. The other volunteers responded to the incident, but no one was trying to get the girl to stop crying. I just instinctively picked her up and held her until she calmed down. I eventually had to put her down to use the restroom, and she didn’t seem to mind me leaving. But when I came back she was standing right there at the door while the others were playing. She wordlessly put her arms out, asking to be held again.

That’s when it hit me. That was the perfect moment of clarity that made me realize what kind of impact I could have on a child. I couldn’t think of anything else for the rest of the day.

My first son just turned two. He pisses me off on an almost daily basis, but I love him more than life itself. I hope I do a good job.